He was not quite present for any of what happened. Korbin felt as though he was descending into some pit of hell, where the reactions of his body were secondary to the torment in his mind. The nightmares were brought alive anew, and this time they stayed even into his waking hours. Monsters roamed the streets of the village, ripping to pieces everyone he knew, and every time the realization struck that he was the monster. The blood on his hands, the broken doors, the strewn bodies, it was him, all him.
He was the monster. Because he couldn't love these people more than his dead kin, he would hurt them. Leave them. Voices came to him, angry and accusatory. Would he really leave them to die just to keep thibgs the same as they always had been? Necessary sacrifices, or at least inevitable, lest Halo changed beyond recognition. Korbin hated change. Hated disruption and chaos. His hold on life, on his own place in the scheme of things was so tenuous that his whole world shook at the slightest thing. Without Weaver to serve as anchor, he only had the community to fall back on. Customs and traditions that he didn't even participate in. But they were there, and it was enough to lend at least a cursory illusion of stability.
But it wouldn't last, would it. Would it? Change was brought on by the outsiders, by the Voice and her creatures, by those who had stronger minds than his and did not fear change. Or letting people in. By those who still knew how to trust.
Still he would rather tie them all down and condemn them all to the dangers of the Tundra than give up on what he knew. It was wrong. Sick and twisted, but what could he do? His mind couldn't keep up, couldn't process the changes, couldn't even see them because it was only shadows in his own head. Fear, so much fear, terrified of more loss because it would invariably break him.
If he wasn't already broken. He was, wasn't he? Why else was he lying here in this bed, forced to endure a woman he'd threatened to kill? Or...whatever his thoughts had been on at the time. Korbin couldn't quite recall what had been said that time. Not much of anything beyond the past few.. well, for a long time really. Kiada's fist connecting with his face was clear, and stumbling into Neron's room afterwards, but... the rest was a blur.
He did remember rage. And threats. And a stupid deal.
The scent of honey and tea was cloying, a thick odor that clogged his airways. The nausea wouldn't let up, and he turned his head away from the food, from the woman.
Korbin wished they would just let him be. If he died, so be it. That would be better for everyone.
He was the monster. Because he couldn't love these people more than his dead kin, he would hurt them. Leave them. Voices came to him, angry and accusatory. Would he really leave them to die just to keep thibgs the same as they always had been? Necessary sacrifices, or at least inevitable, lest Halo changed beyond recognition. Korbin hated change. Hated disruption and chaos. His hold on life, on his own place in the scheme of things was so tenuous that his whole world shook at the slightest thing. Without Weaver to serve as anchor, he only had the community to fall back on. Customs and traditions that he didn't even participate in. But they were there, and it was enough to lend at least a cursory illusion of stability.
But it wouldn't last, would it. Would it? Change was brought on by the outsiders, by the Voice and her creatures, by those who had stronger minds than his and did not fear change. Or letting people in. By those who still knew how to trust.
Still he would rather tie them all down and condemn them all to the dangers of the Tundra than give up on what he knew. It was wrong. Sick and twisted, but what could he do? His mind couldn't keep up, couldn't process the changes, couldn't even see them because it was only shadows in his own head. Fear, so much fear, terrified of more loss because it would invariably break him.
If he wasn't already broken. He was, wasn't he? Why else was he lying here in this bed, forced to endure a woman he'd threatened to kill? Or...whatever his thoughts had been on at the time. Korbin couldn't quite recall what had been said that time. Not much of anything beyond the past few.. well, for a long time really. Kiada's fist connecting with his face was clear, and stumbling into Neron's room afterwards, but... the rest was a blur.
He did remember rage. And threats. And a stupid deal.
The scent of honey and tea was cloying, a thick odor that clogged his airways. The nausea wouldn't let up, and he turned his head away from the food, from the woman.
Korbin wished they would just let him be. If he died, so be it. That would be better for everyone.
In loving memory of when I gave a shit
KORBIN
HALE
HALE
